


Paint the Town Red

by APenguinAteMySmarthphone



Series: Red and Black [1]
Category: Battle of Tokyo (LDH), Fantastics from Exile Tribe (Band), Generations from Exile Tribe (Band), The Rampage from Exile Tribe (Band)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Contains a more detailed warning, Headcanon, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Lots of mentions of the color red, Murder, Not even it's just complete brain rot, OK not really implied it's pretty damn obvious, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Other: See Story Notes, Please read the beginning notes first, Possessive Behavior, Sort of a gang/mafia-esque story, There are other characters I'm just too lazy to tag sorry, but only mentioned, i still suck at tagging, implied at least - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APenguinAteMySmarthphone/pseuds/APenguinAteMySmarthphone
Summary: It is a sort of irony that his name tells the tales of someone with a heart of pure and unfiltered lightーa saint with the most untainted of souls, just in his actions and solemn in his thoughts. A pinnacle of morality, the light of their loved ones’ lives.(Alternatively, Lucas and the color red.)
Relationships: Lupus/Lucas
Series: Red and Black [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2181525
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Paint the Town Red

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me and the hellscape that is my mind. Don't read if you can't stand semi-obsessive behavior, extreme crack head-canons, and also just the ramblings of someone who didn't beta read this because they began writing it at 12AM.
> 
> Obsessive Lupus and Assassin Lucas warning, and don't read if you can't deal with your fav being even mildly obsessed/creepy. Seriously, don't. 
> 
> Don't say I didn't warn you.

Lucas is a man who wears the color red best.

It suits him, adorns him like jewels and fine robes, and it is not only because his hair shines the same color, nor merely due to the tones of his attire, covered in monochromatic blacks and hues of blood red.

There are glimpses of the color in the abyssal depths of his eyes; there are hints of it splattered against the vivid scarlet of his shirt, too dark to be mere stains of something innocent; there are noticeable signs, telltales of his work, coloring his face and hands like carefree splatters of paintーa child’s best work on a canvas of white, with hands too unsteady to paint in broader and surer strokes. 

The rest of the team seldom glimpses this side of him. To say they are unaware would be a blatant lieーnaturally, there are members with varying degrees of understanding to the nature of his work; there are very few of them, however, who can recognize his degree of talent, to see they have a genuine prodigy in their midst.

“A prodigy,” Bailey gives him a worried smile, the expression so motherly Lupus wouldn’t have doubted this man had raised children in the past. “Is not how I would put it. He _is_ talented, but in this field such talent is dangerous. The sort of skills he wields are much too destructive for his own good.” 

Hades often has the same outlook, and the missions assigned for Lucas are rarely of the type that calls for his inherent skills. There is not much work for them in that department either; they are shields rather than blades; protectors rather than aggressors; defenders rather than attackers. Seldom do they need to perform a brutal and bloody deed, hidden from the eyes of the moon and stars themselves, lest it be to protect those they swore to lay their lives down for. Beautiful and uncompromising, their principles shine to others like the brilliant gleam of a well-polished and battleworn aegis. 

But no shield is perfect, and the stronger the shield the smaller and less notable the cracks in its defense, so small they seem almost inconsequential. Then, one would wonder, what does one do with those loopholes, those small seams where pinprick needles thread themselves through, hardly noticed for their insignificance and size? How does one deal with them in a manner befitting mighty protectors, sworn to never abandon the home they claim their own?

Hades and Goemon take strategy and teamworkーthey are a perfect combination of brute strength and calculating efficiency. 

Bailey suggests the latter more than the formerーhis kindness shines even in dire straits, even in desperate times. His is a firm, unwavering belief in the power of the bonds they hold, and their determination to seize victory through trembling fingers and shoulders lined side by side. 

Everyone suggests their own methods, their own views to the issueーthat is, if they see it. There are slightly more naive men in their group, the kind who work so effortlessly in a team and in a fight, yet rarely account for the need to think in the minds of foxes to deal with rats. But no one hardly sees fault in such a traitーin Marduk’s words, that is the sort of person that helps to build their reputation. They are _protectors_ and not _killers._ Not brutes or mercenaries or murderers. 

But “assassin” always has a nice ring to it, yet even then Lupus doubts it fits his redheaded companion to the point of perfection. A placeholder for the oddity of his self-perceived role in the group, one he half chosen and half brought upon himself, a cruel coincidence under brutal circumstances. 

Resenting this newfound talentーthis job Lucas brought upon himselfーwould be the right thing to do, both as his teammate and friend. Yet Lupus hardly finds himself racked with thoughts of guilt or urges to do the dirty work himself, to preserve any false senses of purity. The only urge, he supposes, is to keep that side of himーthe side that dances seamlessly with redーas well-hidden as possible; yet even then this is less a preservation of his image and more a base desire, selfish even, to keep the sight to himself. Infinite layers of purity and beauty and ugliness, every paradox imaginable, wrapped in the tight black belts of the inexplicable harness Lucas dons, a sort of unintentional symbolism. 

Lupus has no urge to be a poet, but he is rather proud of that analogy. Likewise, he preserves it, and his pride, in a corner of his head. 

* * *

Lupus almost always accompanies Lucas on these jobs. There are rarely any exceptions, save for those times where his assistance was sorely needed. Sarutobi denies it, but the memory of the alley fight several months ago nearly ending in their defeat due to a small miscommunication in danger between the reconnaissance teams rings fresh in everyone’s minds, and Q-B still examines their equipment with more precision and care than perhaps necessary for the smallest of operations. Lupus had half catapulted himself over roofs and through passageways, Gusk and Marine bringing up the rear as backup. 

Lucas hadn’t been there, a fact that the person in question had been sorely disappointed about. Kisaragi made scathing remarks at his senior’s expense, but even he had the vaguest of ideas about the former’s whereabouts prior; no one said it, but everyone knew what sort of job Lucas sometimes drifted off to do on his own. _Regardless_ of whether it had been an authorized job or not. 

But unless circumstance dictated it, Lupus always made sure to accompany the other on these excursions. Backup was a vital part of any strategy, authorized or no. 

Bailey believed he was doing it solely because he worried for Lucas’ safety.

Hades trusted him to keep the more impulsive of the two of them in line.

Goemon thought it was a good strategy, to send their unassuming membersーso thin in stature but deadlier than the bite of a snake. A pair of nightshades, beautiful and poisonous. 

Q-B, he suspects, knows there is more to it, though he can’t imagine his junior in the team could possibly know what exactly “it” was. A suspicion, a hunch, a gnawing irritation that things were not as they appeared, but nothing further. He has no intention to brag, but he has enough confidence in his demeanor to know when he is hiding something well. The first to be alerted to the smallest cracks in his visage would be none other than himself, and so seldom does he strip off the mask. 

Lucas never questions why Lupus accompanies himーwhat reason would he have to? They have operated together several times in the past, each one’s quirks and strengths and weaknesses engraved in the minds of the other like scratches in a tree trunk. The redhead simply heads out when he needs to, and Lupus silently trails along, a guardian angel in the form of a soundless shadow. They find their rats for that night, trailing them silently. They trace them to their sourcesーwho is giving them their orders, who is operating behind the scenes of said orders. Whether they are dealing with their average sewer rats who slipped in through the pipes, or rats under the guise of mice, plotters of treason who would dare to turn their backs on an agreement with Rowdy Shogun. Sometimes, this process spans days, maybe weeks, of gathering intel and observation. Others, Lucas merely walks in to finish the job. Regardless of the actions he takes, the rats are no more in the end, mere fleshy carcasses whose last living thought was likely regret that they had picked a fight with their group. With them. That they’d let the red grim reaper catch them unawares, in their moment of glory where they had believed they had outsmarted a higher power, had achieved the impossible. Lucas seemed to prefer to hunt rats when he was sure they were drunk on their glory, their objectives dangling at the edge of their fingertips.

Yet that temptation was whisked away from their clutching hands before their very eyes, by the same man who, mere seconds later, had them lying in glistening pools of their own blood, the last sounds they heard meaningless conversation between their murderer and his accomplice. A string of jargon that mocked them as they slowly descended into whatever land awaited them after they arose from their sleep, never to return. 

_Let them live their glory._ Lucas had whispered these words on a night of no stars, of pitch black skies and ominous gray clouds. All the lights in the city had been extinguished, and Lupus vaguely remembers the scent of rain and thunder. Lucas’ face had been blanketed in shadow, his voice the only indication that it was him. Yet, as with all things concerning the two of them, Lupus knew it was him, would always know. _Let them believe they will win. Then take it from them, and make them regret that they ever dared to threaten us. Our family._ The words had no fire in them, yet no ice. Hearing his voice when he had uttered those words alone would’ve instilled an entirely different breed of fear in the hearts of the listeners; it was not a chill down the spine, but rather the same sensation as gazing down a yawning pit, so deep the bottom appears to become the abyss. The type that no one wants to risk falling down, yet somehow finds themselves at the edge, their memories of how they wound up there wiped blank. 

Put simply, Lucas looks fucking ethereal in his element, surrounded by that color that tints his life the shades of rubies and garnets. It gives his eyes, dark as they were, that gleam of scarlet, that undeniable miasma of blood. 

Like a dark sun. Or the moon on the night of a miracle, when the Earth has cut it off from bathing directly in the glory of the sun, the only light it receives from the escapees of the barrier a whole planet places before them, like desperate refugees. 

Lupus has seen a blood moon before, and never has a sight touched him so. The same feeling lingers in his partnerーthe same complicated mesh of emotions, some awe, some apprehension, some desire. Never clear cut but sharper than the edge of a blade, nonetheless. Like a wound he gouges at himself, because it is not pain that he receives, but a sense of feeling. Of being alive. 

He has always, since then, appreciated the color red. 

* * *

_It is a sort of irony that his name tells the tales of someone with a heart of pure and unfiltered lightーa saint with the most untainted of souls, just in his actions and solemn in his thoughts. A pinnacle of morality, the light of their loved ones’ lives._

Sherrock’s scathing remarks about irony and fairytales, are, in the end, just that: tales. To Lupus, the greater irony was that no one could see how well the color red suited his partnerーafter all, the signs were all there, in his hair and his clothes and even in the flash of his eyes. A perfect harmony of black and red, the colors of secrets and sin and locksーof deals and shady work behind closed doors. A name was merely a nameーafter all, one could not choose their name at birth, and seldom was there a deeper meaning if one decided to change it. 

And who cared if there was? It seemed the largest paradox to himーcircumstance dictated a name change, so why would anyone expect easy answers with a little prying? Secrets and circumstance were always toeing the lines of an elaborate dance, leaving no room for the snoop to come sniffing for justifications to their narrow views of the world. Understanding was not always for the best, he had long ago deduced; it could be the most selfish of means to try and encapsulate the world in one’s personal bubble. 

His response thenーas it always has beenーwas a glare loaded with scorn, colder than the frost in the tundra, sharper than a hunter locked on the prey they had been chasing for many nights. _What do you know?_ He may seethe on the inside, but keeping his calm is worth it for the power it brings him, if only slightly, for he knows little fazes this man and his group. 

And it is ever-so infuriating to admit this, but he cannot deny the moments where curiosity, a more naive version of himself, yearns to respond to the unspoken invitationーto unfold the living irony that is Lucas. It is not fear, not a wish to assure himself, for he has long accepted that Lucas has blood on his hands, is drenched with it. Yet they all do, and he could care less. Even now, if he decided to try killing this man before him, he would feel no qualms doing so, he reckons. Blood on his hands made no difference to him. Blood on Lucas’ hands was a mere extension of aesthetic appreciation at this point. Red on red. Hues of scarlet. The color of his hair, the flashes of his eyes, the tint of his cheeks, the shade of his lips. It was all red. What difference did the hands make?

So Sherrockーand really, anyoneーcould go fuck right off; the colors adorning what was _his_ and not _theirs_ wouldー _should_ ーmake no difference to them. Lupus wondered how he could ever solidify his claim, and sometimes muses whether it is worth adding a few shades of red to his own hands, if only to shut them all up.

Lucas finds this all immensely boring. Perhaps he thinks Lupus does too, because every time his partner notices his foul mood after dealing with these interlopers, he flashes him a wry smile, white on red and black, and teases him to no end for his surly expression. His brand of irritation at the meddling of others is merely placated by playing the child; his reactions are always so youthful, painfully so, as if every interaction with a rival group or an enemy is the sort that warrants an angry, childish tirade or merely a string of mumbled complaints. And then, of course, the teasing, but only towards others.

Lucas thinks he views the world around them with boredom, thus not reading any further into the surliness of his mood, the brooding nature of his expression. And perhaps he does, but he harbors far more bloodlust then his redhaired companion thinks.

* * *

_Do you not ever once question what he may be thinking?_

Aria’s words are always fraught with something between concern and disbelief, a visceral reaction to a concept beyond comprehension. It’s not fear that brings forth the question, no simple emotions at all, really, merely an earnest desire to hear the answer to his inquiry. His reputation as one who can “see all” precedes himーhis view on the matter is much more generous. There’s a cautious hand on everything he says, much as if his words are like a typically obedient, but unpredictable, hound, liable to either stay perfectly calm or pounce in a manner close to vicious should he loosen his hold. He doesn’t say as much as he conveys, but even then Lupus seldom sees a need for further communication. 

Aria is earnest and wise, a contradiction within another. A prophet who wants to do good, but also one who cannot reveal too much, lest he implicate himself in his own role. They stand relatively close to one another as they speak, yet a thousand meters of knowledge separate them, keep one another at bay; it is not a matter of who is far ahead, but more the distance between their worlds and what occupies them. 

Lupus doubts it is with any underhanded intentions the younger warns him in this manner, with eyes barely concealing a shadow of concern. It is appreciated, he supposes, to be asked more earnestly than some others bother attempting, but he would really prefer not to be asked at all.

 _No._ Is his response, time and time again. _Not in the slightest._

Aria always looks a little more distraught afterwards. Lupus always feels the tiniest bit guilty. 

But not enough to lie about it.

* * *

Lucas is not cold. 

He does not treat the rest of the team with any noticeable distance, nor does he seem to harbor any sort of story tale guiltーthe kind of dark heroes with bloodstained hands and kindly hearts, harboring guilt and suspicion and unwilling to communicate lest they risk normalcy seeping into their lives. If there is any measured distance then Lucas merely does a damn good job of hiding it, for no one can ever harbor the suspicion he is distant or two-faced in his presence. He acts as he is, says as he does, and certainly does what he pleases. It brings no end to the arguments and banter, and even then Lucas lets no facade slipーlikely because there was none to begin with at all. 

It is a part of his appeal, in Lupus’ biased opinion of the otherーthey are almost polar opposites then, sometimes, with Lupus’ tendency to remain silent and cold, and Lucas’ inclination to childish outbursts. He can be selfish; he can be bratty; he can be uncomfortably blunt. Yet this charm is what makes him so well-received, so well-loved, because this sort of attitude is hard-pressed to find in the underbelly of society, where even the kind, sunshine types such as Bailey often have to quash down these sides in times of great severity. 

The color red is not always the color of secrecy and bloodshed. It is also the color of fall leaves and apples, warmth and free-spirited wind.

* * *

Lucas is not cold, but he does have things to hide. Blood on his shirt at 2AM in the morning. The mysterious dullness of his weapons, worn after far much use than one could calculate for. Slight scratches and scrapes and bruisesーhis targets had put up more of a fight than the others, until Lupus cut them down from the shadowsーand the occasional fatigue that dictated the young redhead was permitted to sleep in. Lupus knows the answers to all of these.

He was _there_ after all.

Yet there are some things about the other even he does not understand, a fact that causes him little amusement.

For example, the harness.

 _It’s a fashion choice,_ Lucas says with affront. _Lupus is hardheaded, so he wouldn’t get it._ Lupus’ only response, in front of the others, is a raised eyebrow. Kisaragi rolls his eyes, and yanks Lucas by the strange belts, like a misbehaving kitten.

 _If_ **_this_ ** _is supposed to be a fashion choice,_ he deadpanned, _then I’m the emperor of Shin-Tokyo._

The argument, if there ever was one from the start, ends there, with Lucas’ next focus shifting to yowling at Kisaragi for manhandling himーa stark reminder of their height differences, where the shorter of the two is the elder. A sore subject at times, one that can send Lucas into one of his worst moods.

Later, when they’re alone, Lupus tugs the harness in a grumpy and mildly threatening manner, although there is no menace behind it. _So I’m a hardhead now?_

Lucas has the audacity to grin at him cheekily, even with his movement restricted. _Always have been._

The harness is made of soft leather, ink black against rose red. Another part of aesthetic appreciation, he supposes. 

_Don’t lie,_ is what he says instead. _This harness isn’t for that._

 _Oh yeah?_ Lucas’ grin gets cheekier by the minute, but it does little to hide the flush of his skin. It is a game they play, of subtle threatening and teasing, pulling at each other until one of them cracks to the pressure. A game with no winners or losers, no victory at the end. 

Or, if one reads the situation the way they like, perhaps with _some_ victory at the end. It depends.

Lupus continues to persistently tug at the strap until Lucas visibly wincesーit cuts deeper into flesh than it appears. 

(The harness occasionally tugs too much, digs too deeply into fresh, and then there is a different shade of red on one who already wears it to perfection. It only adds more to the beauty of the color, and the one who wears it.)

 _Wearing it is only a hindrance, logically speaking,_ he almost growls into the other’s earーquiet and sharp and deepーas he tugs the harness without mercy. _Or do you just like being manhandled like this?_

 _Maybe._ Lucas continues to wince in pain, but sneers in response. _Or maybe you’re just a horny bastard._ There’s a self-satisfied smirk on his lips, only further accentuated when Lupus narrows his eyes at him, before leaning in.

Lupus doesn’t actually know what the harness is for, but it does a damn good job of showing its owner off, he supposes.

Lucas hisses in pain, a real sound outside of subtle expression, and Lupus thinly smiles.

* * *

Tonight is a night of a thin crescent moon. A pity, Lupus thinksーa blood moon would suit this stage best. It’s lead actor has blood on his front, breathing heavily but without any emotion, mere physical response to a strenuous effort. Hardly blamable; he had just slaughtered a warehouse’s worth of men, all much older and many experienced in the handling of automatic weaponry. Holes peppered the walls and mysterious cratesーthe cargo of their victims, illicit goods about to be spread on Rowdy Shogun territory.

Lucas doesn’t spare the bodies a single glance; already he has moved on, silently, to the brokers who are discussing business in the controls room, with its panels of gleaming machinery. So typical of idiot gang members, with little order outside of violence and strife, to situate their guards so obviously. No one here is as experienced as they, and thus no one here is likely to make it out alive. 

Not that anyone, once Lucas was set upon them, ever was. 

Lupus follows a short distance behind, letting the gleaming red hair walk a few paces ahead, stopping to stoop and admire the other’s handiwork. Clean cuts, running across their victims’ necks in smooth, straight lines, not wasting an inch of efficiency. All life lost in a few spurts of blood. Lucas may look good in red, but it doesn’t imply he is inefficient. Subtle splashes are far more artistic than complete dousing of the colorーone has their own extents of how much appreciation they can tolerate. A little at a time is the perfect amount; too much is mere slaughter, no artistry or beauty behind it. A grisly show by a sloppy hunter with no idea how to properly dismantle their prey.

Lupus glances up just in time to see Lucas step out of the controls room with the same chilly aura encircling him as it did on all of these excursions, and feels an excited chill run down his spine. His face remains a neutral mask, but judging from the odd look Lucas shoots at him, it must be slipping. He can’t help it, thoughーthere is only so much wonder one can keep bottled up, and every night ends the same: a sense of euphoria and appreciation, of gazing at an artistic masterpiece alone, in a museum at night when no one is around. 

Lucas is a man who wears the color red best. And Lupus is a man who appreciates the color red more than anyone. 

Really, it’s as simple as that.

**Author's Note:**

> Before the novel for BOT drops I figured why not write this here and revel in the weird-ass workings of my mind.
> 
> Lucas is a sort of hitman/assassin within the RS group and Lupus can't take his eyes off him, especially on a job. Sherrock and Aria show up but it's mainly the RS cast. I feel weird tagging characters because it's not technically them but it is and naming everybody when they don't all show up feels weird so the tags have less character names and more just warnings. 
> 
> Also I am on hiatus for any continued works and will likely be posting one-shots and shit because my college schedule online dictates I be good at time management and while this feels belated that is a skill I sorely need to improve. Haha, don't we all....?
> 
> Sort of a self-promo here (indulge me, please, I need to be nice to myself at least once in a while), but if you're new to my page then please give some of my other stuff a read! I promise it's not all dark or shady. This isn't the best time to self-promo in general since I'm on semi-hiatus but it would still be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please leave a kudos or comment if you liked the story! I wish you all a wonderful day, week, what have you. Now I must go back to listening to snow falling off my roof for what feels like the 50th time this month.


End file.
